


Indignity

by apple_pi



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the squalor of his current surroundings, locked into the dank wine cellar beneath the governor's home, Norrington was grateful enough not to be in the city gaol, perhaps with men he'd arrested himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indignity

**Author's Note:**

> This was my (later Jossed) idea of where Norrington might have ended up after the second PotC movie. Dark, dirty and wrong. Implied Norrington/Sparrow. I went ahead and warned for non-con, although technically consent is given.

"I'll spare you the indignity," Beckett had said; and despite the squalor of his current surroundings, locked into the dank wine cellar beneath the governor's home, Norrington was grateful enough not to be in the city gaol, perhaps with men he'd arrested himself. Grateful enough, anyway, that when his captor came to see him Norrington did not cut Beckett's throat as soon as the other man was within arm's reach of the bars that separated them. Not that he was certain he could fit his hand through the narrow squares that were all the opening afforded to him.

"How do you fare?" Beckett asked, genial enough on the other side of the ironwork. His pale skin and pale wig and dark eyes gleamed in the dim light.

Norrington looked at him without standing. "I could use a bath," he said. The broken glass in his right hand was smooth and comforting, tucked into his palm, held out of sight beside his thigh.

Beckett smiled. "And a razor, and fresh clothing," he said.

"I would not be averse to a gun," Norrington suggested. "Or a knife, perhaps." The ragged edge of the shard dug into his palm through the bit of torn cloth he'd wrapped around it.

Beckett turned to the marine standing blankly behind him. "Leave us," he said. "Go and wait for me at the top of the stair."

The marine looked uneasily through the steel lattice-work, and Norrington smiled. He knew well enough how he must look, and how that smile must look: teeth and eyes in a tangle of beard and hair and grime, sweat and filth. Even in Tortuga, weak with rum and hatred and the flux that had emptied him every time he ate that devil-forsaken food, he'd most often been left alone.

The marine shifted and opened his mouth: "Perhaps you should leave the keys with me, sir," and Beckett raised one hand, not even turning to look - Beckett had seen the smile, and was watching Norrington now.

"I shan't be harmed," he said. "Do as you're told."

The marine nodded, turning his troubled face away, and Norrington and Beckett both listened as his footsteps receded along the stones; finally there were the hollow sounds as he climbed the steps and then the thin creak of the door, opening and closing.

"Alone at last," Norrington drawled.

"You've fallen on hard times." Beckett's voice was sweet, like the curve of his lips: girlish.

Norrington stood up, restless, and paced to the lattice. "Not so low I can't still look down on you," he said.

Beckett's head tipped back, regarding him without fear: contempt, yes, and something darker, too. "You always did. And yet here I am, and there you are."

Norrington stared down at him. "And which of us should be the more ashamed?" His gut knew, weak and sick as he was on the watered beer and hard bread he'd been given each day, but he kept the knowledge from his face, only sneering at Beckett in the long silence that followed his words.

"We each do what we must," Beckett said finally; his voice was easy. "You did, and Jack Sparrow, and William Turner and so shall I."

"Oh, you _must_ ," Norrington said, smiling sarcastically. "Well, in that case." He made a short, abortive gesture with his left hand and turned away, still concealing his makeshift blade; when he sat again it was to stare through the shadows at Beckett. "You look a poltroon," he said softly, and Beckett straightened, almost imperceptably. Norrington went on, his voice low and sneering. "Tarted up with powder and pearls - do they bleed you, to make you so fair? Do the women dance with you, Cutler? Do they praise your pale face, and lay their soft hands on you?"

"You -" Beckett's voice was vicious, soft.

"What do you do after the balls?" Norrington asked. His voice never wavered, though he thought he might vomit at any moment. "Do you come here, to this house? Do their husbands come to you, after, and undress you, and praise your pale face and your powdered cheeks?"

"I'm only keeping you alive long enough to see Elizabeth Swann hang," Beckett said.

Norrington fell silent, and did not laugh in Beckett's face. The faint rush of the ocean, never far, filled the empty space between his gaoler and himself. "You show me too much mercy," Norrington said into that space.

Beckett took a step back. The torch in the wall bracket cast clear light onto his serene features, but he didn't smile when he spoke. "I shall send someone down with bathing water and soap," he said, and turned, and was gone.

 

There were clothes, too, coarse and plain but clean, and three marines, one to shave him and the other two, he supposed, to ensure that he did not adopt the razor for his own. They left eventually - the empty wash basin banged against one man's leg as he carried it in his hand, its water having been sluiced across the floor into the drain in the corner - and Norrington went to sit upon his cot again. He lay down eventually, and groped in the crevice where wall met floor for his blade, cool thick glass and ragged, threadbare cloth in his palm.

For a while he was still: his eyes closed, back to the cell, and he thought of warm windburnt skin and tangled hair, wet mouth and dry, callused fingers. He thought of knotting his fingers in those tangles, the sharp tang of gold against his tongue. Norrington curled around himself, around the blade cupped close to his chest.

"Are you asleep?"

Norrington didn't move. "No."

Beckett was alone. Norrington hadn't heard him approach; hadn't heard, either, the heavy footsteps of the guards. "I should provide you with a pastime. Reading, perhaps, or sketching."

"Swordplay," Norrington said. He lay the glass shard down and rolled over, keeping his legs drawn up. It wouldn't do for Beckett to see his arousal. "That would be a fine pastime."

"Turner's blade is fine," Beckett said. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on his feet. "Almost as handsome as he is."

"Turning your eye towards young Will?" Norrington said. He pillowed his head on his arm and gazed at Beckett through half-closed eyes.

Beckett regarded him coolly. "You won't be sorry to see him hang, one presumes."

"He's done little to earn my friendship," Norrington said, "though he's probably decent enough, in his way." He sat up slowly. He felt more himself without the overgrown thicket of beard, but more naked, as well, and more subject to the stirrings of civilised shame; he had not felt such things the day before. "Not corrupt enough, certainly." He inclined his head briefly. "I'm sure you could cure that small lack, should you wish."

"So." Beckett cocked his head. "You do not care if Miss Swann hangs, and you do not care if Mr. Turner dangles beside her. What of Jack Sparrow? Certainly you seem... interested in him."

Norrington steadied his breathing, and – with an effort – did not grope for the glass knife. "I ruined myself in his pursuit," he said. "I am interested in seeing him dead, by bullet or noose or blade."

Beckett was right against the lattice, now, and Norrington itched to kill him. He could almost feel the heated gush of blood, see Beckett's surprised, paling eyes. "I branded him, you know," Beckett said. "In Ceylon."

"Don't boast," Norrington said sharply; Beckett's almost-imperceptible snap to attention pleased him, and he smiled, slow and cruel. "So you haven't left your fagging days _quite_ behind," he said. "You always were a dreadful little suckup. But you blacked my boots better than anyone else in your year."

"And you always were a crashing snob," Beckett said. "Which of us would be more welcome at Trinity now, I wonder?"

"You're as banished as I, you fool," Norrington shot, and saw Beckett's face cloud. "As branded by Jack Sparrow as he was by you."

Beckett's jaw clenched - a small movement, barely visible in the uncertain light of the torch. "My assignment here was nothing to do with Sparrow."

"Do you tell yourself that?" Norrington smiled; it felt as chilly as the jagged glass beneath his thigh, as poised to slice. "Well, we each do what we _must_."

"And did you?" Beckett asked.

Norrington closed his eyes. "I thought I did." Ragged black hair and dark eyes, and scarred skin under his palms. A flash of metal in a smile unexpectedly sweet, and the flat, unreadable movement of Jack's eyes, always sliding towards the horizon.

"He's quite delicious, in his way," Beckett said after a pause, and Norrington opened his eyes too quickly. He saw the satisfaction in his adversary's eyes. "Ah," Beckett said.

"Don't be more of an ass than you must, Cutler," Norrington said.

Beckett's thin fingers threaded through the wide openings in the iron grating that separated them. "I think I am not the fool here, James Norrington." He was smiling. "How much will it cost you to see him swing?" His lips were parted, avid, as he watched Norrington for a reaction which wouldn't come. "What is it worth to you, to see him before he walks to the gallows?"

Norrington stood. The blade was no longer in his hand. "You have nothing to give me anymore," he said; his voice was harsh and too loud. He lowered it, forcing his contempt into a growl. "And I have nothing to give you - I sold it all, already, for the knife your man will use to slit my throat."

Beckett's fingers loosed the iron with an effort as he stepped back. There was a flush high on his white cheeks, but his mouth curled again into that sweet, feminine expression: not quite a smile. "You have something yet to sell, I think," he said. "And you needn't feel the knife, you know, James." He put his hand to his throat, almost unconsciously it appeared, thin fingers light on sensitive skin. "I have everything to give you."

"Nothing," Norrington said, but his bare face and thin voice betrayed him, and Beckett smiled.

"We'll talk of this another time," he said, and turned to leave.

Norrington watched him go, hands clenched on emptiness, back straight and rigid.

Beckett didn't return for eight days.

 

"You need to shave again," Beckett said.

He was alone; Norrington saw it when he opened his eyes. "They didn't bring a razor last time."

Beckett made a _tsk_ ing noise. "You shouldn't have tried to slit Greenborough's throat, the time before," he said. "He'll bear the scar for a while yet."

"Serves him right." Norrington sat up, moving slowly. His rations had thinned yet again, despite the baths every three days or so; it had been four since the razor. Perhaps Beckett wanted to starve him into docility. It might work, Norrington conceded privately. The thirst was particularly unpleasant.

Beckett studied his own fingernails. "Is there anything you require?"

"Water would be welcome," Norrington said. He wished he'd said something else - asked for a sword again, or a flintlock. But his lips were dry, tongue thick in his mouth. He'd finished the last of his meagre pint at sunset, and it was probably late now, with no more liquid to come until the morning.

"Oh, certainly," Beckett said carelessly. He turned and walked for a moment; Norrington heard the scrape of something being lifted, and when Beckett returned he held a flask in his hand. "Here you are."

The container wouldn't fit through the iron squares.

"Oh dear," Beckett said with elaborate unconcern. "Well, perhaps not."

"I -" Norrington stopped himself, and swallowed against the aridity in his mouth. "I won't harm you if you open the door to give it me."

Beckett raised his eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Norrington drew himself up, still seated. "I give you my word," he said, aware of the absurdity of it; aware also that he would stand by it. He'd broken his word often enough, but for this - no. He didn't have much else left.

Beckett examined him, eyes flicking from the rough stubble thickening to a beard again to his hands, curled loose and harmless in his own lap. "I'm inclined to trust you," Beckett murmured, almost surprised.

Norrington did not move, and dropped his eyes to his hands.

He was rewarded with the grating sound of the key in the lock. His belly clenched in reaction: the body’s blind, stupid hope that such a sound meant food, water, sustenance.

“Well?” Beckett said.

Norrington looked up. Beckett stood in the doorway, the flask in his right hand; the keys hung loose from the fingers of his left hand. The torch in the bracket behind him left his face in shadows.

“You can leave it,” Norrington said. His voice was too quiet in his own ears: weak. 

Beckett came closer, the flask held out before him, his face resolving to clarity. “You gave your word.”

“I did,” Norrington said; he reached for the flask.

Beckett gripped it for a moment, then let it go; his soft fingers brushed Norrington’s as he released the container. “There you are,” he said inconsequentially.

Norrington was already drinking; whiskey and water, citrus softening the harsh burn of the alcohol. He closed his eyes; tipped his head back and drank hastily, until there was no more. 

When he finished he lowered his head and belched quietly into his wrist; looked up to see Beckett staring, face unshuttered: contempt and hunger; distaste; desire.

Neither man looked away.

Beckett took the flask and tucked it into his pocket. “You needn’t have hurried so,” he said. “I would not give you a taste and then take it away.”

“No?” Norrington tilted his head. “My time among pirates must have… coarsened me.” 

“Ah,” Beckett said.

They watched one another. The sea was high beyond the walls and the cliffs, the same constant faraway white noise washing between them.

“You needn’t feel the knife,” Beckett said.

Norrington did not reach for his throat.

“I just want to leave,” he replied.

Beckett stepped closer yet, and Norrington’s palm itched for the weight of the knife. “To sail away, James. Is that what you want?” His voice was low. Dreamy, almost.

“Perhaps,” Norrington said. He looked away, and closed his eyes when he felt Beckett’s hand on his neck. He controlled himself with an effort, and did not shudder. “I will not have it,” he said, and heard how terrible his own voice was, how harsh and low and grating, as jarring as the sound of the key in the lock. “Do not touch me, Cutler Beckett, unless you give your word that you will set me free.”

Beckett’s fingers tightened, and his body breathed warmth, even in the sticky humidity of the tropical night; he smelled of sweat and lavender, sickly sweet, overpoweringly masculine. “Your freedom for a fuck, James?” The cultured drawl of his voice never changed.

Norrington’s hands curled into fists upon his thighs; he did not move under Beckett’s hand. “If you would be so kind,” he managed, and hoped his utter loathing did not – quite – sound through.

“On your hands and knees, then,” Beckett said.

Norrington did not think of the knife, secreted on the floor beneath his bed, against the wall. He did not think of Cutler Beckett and what a useless little toad he’d been at school, or of how he must have looked when he held the iron that burned into Jack Sparrow’s flesh.

Norrington stood and turned his back to Beckett, and thought instead of the sea, the living heave of a wooden deck beneath his feet. Norrington unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down his thighs and knelt on the cot, hands braced on the wall; he thought of pursuit and capture and sex in a hammock, swinging with the motion of the waves; wedged into the captain’s bunk and laughing, moaning as each thrust used the weight of the water and threatened to tumble them both to the floor. He thought of steel manacles on fine-boned wrists, and tattoos down a lean, scarred body, and he closed his eyes and did not let himself slump forward until he could manage to reach; did not allow himself the clean, cool weight of his glass blade.

Beckett was not gentle. Nor cruel, really; he spat on his fingers and thrust inward with casual disregard for time or care. Norrington kept his eyes closed and did not think of the small, soft palms hot on his hips, pulling him back to meet each push. He did not think of how Beckett’s thighs and buttocks must flex as he moved steadily, or the quick, low tempo of his breath, or the almost-groan as Beckett jerked inward hard: twice, three times, four and then he was still for a moment, hands still light on sweating skin, and the slick trickle of his semen down Norrington’s leg when he withdrew.

James Norrington straightened, moving backward off the cot, and stood with his back turned to pull his trousers up, though he made no movement to wipe away Beckett’s seed, clammy now between his thighs. The cloth would blunt the feeling soon enough, the heat dry it. 

When he turned, Beckett was buttoned as well; his face was pink and faintly sheened with sweat, but his wig was perfectly in place, delicate curls echoing the delicate, disdainful curl of his lips.

“Go, then,” Beckett said.

Norrington regarded him dispassionately. “What about the letters of marque?”

Beckett gave a short, odd bark of laughter. “I’m sorry, James, but your performance wasn’t _that_ fine, I’m afraid.” He had backed away a step, though. 

Norrington nodded, once. He turned and reached under the bed for his makeshift knife; he felt rather an affection for it, really. When he turned back to Beckett the flush of sex had drained away from the other man’s face; his eyes glittered as Norrington stepped nearer, the blade loose and easy in his hand. “You gave your word that you would not harm me,” Beckett said quickly.

Norrington stood over him, looking down. 

“I did, didn’t I?” he said, and stepped around him, and walked away, down the dark corridor of the cellar, torchlight fading behind him. Cloth blunted the jagged curve of the knife, but he found a thin line of blood there later, scabbing already.

By then he was far out to sea, though, and it was a simple matter to climb out onto the bowsprit and hold his hand out into the salt spray. Norrington let his eyes slide towards the horizon and waited for the water to wash the stinging cut clean.


End file.
